


Hunger

by missazrael



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Food, M/M, No Porn, haha amazing not a single porn to be seen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 20:17:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17168702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missazrael/pseuds/missazrael
Summary: Galliard doesn't want to owe Reiner anything, and yet he owes him everything.





	Hunger

Every Eldian in Liberio knows hunger.

It’s just a simple fact of life, as unquestionable as their armbands, as the ghetto where they live; it is a rare day when anyone living in the ghetto goes to bed with a full stomach, when the nights aren’t filled with the thin, weak wails of hungry infants. Rations are enough to keep them alive… most of the time. Rations are enough to keep the strong alive, those made of sterner stuff, and it’s a tragedy when a child or an elderly person wastes away from hunger; or it’s a tragedy until it happens with such grinding commonality that it becomes a part of the scenery, barely worth a second glance. Galliard knows he had grandparents, once—he had to have, his parents didn’t simply spring out from the air—but there had been a hard winter when he was young, only three years old, and they hadn’t made it.

They hadn’t made it so that he and Marcel could.

Even now, years later, Galliard still knows the pinch of hunger, the pangs running up his sides, the suffocating embrace of a belt drawn one loop narrower. He and his parents might be honorary Marleyans now—special, unique, the carrier of one of the Titans of Marley—but they’re still Eldian. They still wear their armbands, still exist on the absolute fringes of Marleyan society. Even the most gifted and special of Eldians are still Eldians, after all, and even carrying a titan doesn’t translate into the kind of rations Marleyans receive.

Still, it’s better. It’s worth the sacrifice, to see his mother’s cheeks curve out slightly, to see his father’s skin gradually warm to a pink hue, rather than the grey tinges Galliard remembers from childhood. It’s better. It’s worth it.

Galliard wonders sometimes how it would have been different, if he’d been chosen initially and gone to Paradise. He remembers how enormous Reiner had been when he’d come back—when he’d come back _alone_ —layered with muscle and heavy in ways no one in the ghetto ever is. He’d wondered then, as he’d lain in his bunk on the ship, steaming back to Marley, back to another war, what Marcel would have looked like, had he had that time, those extra years of life, on the island. Would he have been taller than Galliard when he came back? Would he have been muscular like Reiner, with shoulders that looked like they might jam up in a doorframe, or more like Galliard himself, with thighs grown thick in spite of his rations, solid and compact like a tree, or the dogs the Marleyan guard use to patrol the ghetto? If Galliard had gone, how would he have changed? Would he be taller? Heavier? Stronger than he is now? Would he have been the one who shocked everyone when he came back, with his growth and new muscles and changed personality?

No. Galliard didn’t think so then, and he doesn’t now. He wouldn’t have changed as radically as Reiner did, because he and Marcel wouldn’t have been there as long. They would have been in and out, the way they were supposed to be, working together and retrieving the Founding Titan without such a long, drawn-out, ultimately fruitless attempt. Marcel wouldn’t have even been able to grow a beard by the time they got back, had Marley sent Galliard in Reiner’s place.

Reiner had grown a beard almost immediately, in those first few days back in Marley, those days clouded by grief and despair. He’d grown a beard, and his hair had gotten long enough to fall into his eyes, and he’d shrunk in on himself, refusing food, only rising from his bed to go in front of the military tribunal. Galliard had gone before the tribunal himself, weak-kneed with grief but forcing himself to stand tall, his chin thrust forward, his shoulders back, a proper solider—and they’d asked him: Jaw or Armored? Marley was back in possession of both; which one did he want?

There had never been any question: Galliard had wanted the Jaw, hadn’t even had to think about it, and for once, Marley had listened. He’d gone into the chamber, terrified and elated but mostly consumed with the misery of living in a world without Marcel, and he’d tried not to look at her, at the woman who’d killed his brother, who’d stolen his titan, and when he’d woken up, his head had been filled with memories not his own, and not his brother’s.

She had had memories of hunger too, memories all too familiar, and Galliard wishes she’d rest quiet and let him find his brother. 

Reiner had rallied himself, though, and even Galliard can’t find fault in his actions on the battlefield. If anything, Reiner is almost a little _too_ good, too eager to throw the Armored in front of raging cannons and shrieking shells. Galliard doesn’t question it; they need Reiner’s armor, they need his titan, and if he wants to fling himself into the gaping maw of their enemy’s bristling weaponry, it’s no concern of Galliard’s. Reiner’s nightmares, his tendency to cry out in the middle of the night, the way he tosses and turns, always restless, never finding peace… it’s nothing Galliard can help him with, not when he dreads sleeping and how it never brings dreams of his brother, only dreams of hunger and a younger Reiner. He wakes starving, hungry for things he can’t name, things he can’t articulate, and looks across the room to where Reiner tosses and turns, his face contorted with internal agonies, and Galliard recognizes himself reflected across Reiner’s brow.

~*~

The attack from Paradis is unexpected, unprecedented in its violence and slaughter. It begins with broken bones, and ends with a splitting headache that doesn’t leave Galliard for three days, every follicle of hair on his head throbbing with pain and indignation. For awhile, he’s worried that all his hair will fall out and he’ll be bald, but his hair is tough, and determined, and it sticks around.

The knowledge that Reiner saved him is equally persistent, lurking in the back of Galliard’s mind, crouching at the base of his skull and whispering truths that Galliard has never been willing to face: Reiner was right; Reiner told the truth about Paradise, and about their capabilities; Reiner forced himself upright to save Galliard, who has never treated him well enough to deserve that; Reiner saved him. Without Reiner, Galliard would be devoured, crushed and destroyed, his memories and feelings and self absorbed by the Paradise titan. He’d be gone, if it weren’t for Reiner.

And Galliard realizes, as the headache finally starts to fade away and his scalp starts to feel normal again, that he wants to live. He wants to keep going, he wants everything the world has to offer, he’s greedy for it, _starving_ for it, and for the first time, he’s painfully aware of the limitations of carrying one of the titans. He only has nine years left, less if the war doesn’t go their way, and it’s not enough. It’s not enough to do everything he wants, everything he _needs_ , to do. It’s barely any time at all.

And it’s still more, so much more, than Reiner has.

Reiner is a new man after the attack. He’s energized, vibrant in a way he hasn’t been in years, forceful and determined, and Galliard realizes he’s seeing the Reiner from the woman’s memories. He’s seeing Reiner the way he was in Paradise, a Reiner who reminds him of Marcel but _isn’t_ Marcel, a Reiner who was what everyone needed because he wanted to be, and not because he was forced into the position. Sometimes, when Reiner is bent low over maps, over plans, discussing their strategy with Magath in low, urgent tones, the world shifts around the edges and it’s like Galliard is seeing two Reiners, one laid over the top of the other one, a past Reiner traced over the present one, and he’s filled with a gratitude that is only partially from her memories.

Once, Reiner looks up and meets his eyes, and it happens then: the two Reiners existing side by side, occupying the same space, and as gratitude swells in his chest, Galliard notices the line of Reiner’s cheekbone, and how sunken it’s become, how starved and gaunt Reiner is now, how much older he looks. Galliard has always looked younger than he is, with his round cheeks and upturned nose, and for the first time, he’s aware of how Reiner looks so much older than his years, how an outsider would look at them and think that several years separate them, instead of a few scant months.

The titan is burning Reiner away, and Galliard is filled with a sudden, unexpected grief at the realization.

~*~

They don’t get much warning about their departure; they can’t, not when they’re going rogue and leaving Marley under the shadow of night. They only have about twelve hours to square things away at home, and when Galliard hugs his parents before going out—“For a drink, Mom, I’ll be back before dark”—he’s painfully aware that it might be the last time.

It’s better that they don’t know, he reasons to himself as he moves through the streets, scouring shops and trading in favors long hoarded. They’ve already lost one son to Marley’s war machine, and for the first time, Galliard is aware of Marley’s exquisite cruelty, in letting two sons from the same family both join the warrior program. Had he and Marcel really been that exceptional, that Marley was so afraid of them growing up, and needed to shunt them into a program where they could be monitored, where they could be controlled? Were they really that afraid of the Eldians?

All things to ponder, and for better minds than Galliard’s. He’s not a thinker like Marcel, not a philosopher. He’s always just been a soldier, more recently a warrior, and now, that’s all he’ll ever be.

Somewhere in his chest, her memories turn over, and Galliard is filled with a stupid, hopeless longing that isn’t his own.

He boards the ship with Pieck and Reiner, and a skeleton crew of sailors, handpicked by Magath for their loyalty and their ability to keep their mouths shut. Pickings had been slim; most of Marley’s sailors are resting at the bottom of their harbor, melted by the Colossal Titan’s attack. And maybe there is some poetic justice in that too, for someone smarter than Galliard to figure out.

Pieck is quiet, depressed, and retreats to her cabin almost immediately. Where Reiner has been galvanized, awake for the first time in years, the loss of Zeke and her Panzer unit has hit Pieck hard, and she has been avoiding everyone, wrapping herself in her grief like a protective cloak. It’s a strategy Galliard knows well, and one that he will perhaps try to coax her out of someday, if they have time.

Galliard stays up on the deck of the ship long after Marley has steamed away into the distance, watching the line of the horizon where it blurs away to mindless blue. He wonders if he’ll ever see it again, or if the island will claim him just like it claimed his brother, and a chill runs up the length of Galliard’s spine.

No. No, he won’t lose himself on Paradise. There’s far too much he still has to do.

And, with all the thoughts of things undone and life unexperienced ringing through his head, Galliard leaves the deck, and goes down to the cabin he shares with Reiner.

Reiner is down there, going over maps and strategy, and for a moment, Galliard just stands in the doorway and watches him. Reiner’s head is bent low over his maps, a pencil held in one hand as he sketches places vaguely remembered from four years in the past, his hair mussed where he’s run his hands through it, glinting gold in the lamplight. He doesn’t realize Galliard is there at first, and Galliard waits for him to notice. When Reiner does look up, he starts in surprise, then sits up straight.

“Galliard. Any reports from the deck?”

“No.” Galliard lets himself in, closing the door behind him, and walks to his bunk. They didn’t bring much in terms of supplies—they couldn’t, not when they left so fast—but Galliard had smuggled an extra bag onboard, and he pulls it out now, setting it on his bunk. It lands heavily, sinking into the narrow mattress, and Reiner raises a thin eyebrow at him.

“Do you need something?” 

Reiner asks it politely enough, but Galliard can feel himself bristle all the same; it’s going to take more than a few days of contemplation and overlapping memories for him to completely warm to Reiner. He swallows down his indignation—Reiner is the War Chief now, it was an appropriate question—and shakes his head. “I have something for you.”

Reiner’s brow raises even further, almost disappearing beneath the fall of hair on his forehead. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Bold now, with permission more or less granted, Galliard picks up the bag and carries it to Reiner’s desk, sitting down in the chair across from him and laying the bag across his knees. “Put your papers away.”

Reiner starts shuffling his papers together, his expression baffled, and Galliard opens his bag, reaching into it and arranging what’s inside on the desk. A small tin of cookies, the kind you can only find in the Liberio ghetto, the kind Galliard knows Reiner misses when they’re on campaign; a loaf of dark bread, thick and chewy, heavy enough to be almost a full meal; a jar of jam, made by Galliard’s own mother, from her prized raspberry bush in a hidden alley. Other things, other treasure, begged or borrowed or exchanged for favors done in the past. A taste of home, as shitty and awful as home is, cobbled together in the short amount of time Galliard had had. He arranges everything carefully, precisely, paying attention to what he’s doing and not looking at Reiner until he’s done and the bag is empty (a bottle of Eldian fruit wine, small and precious, is the last thing he sets on the table). Then he looks up, his jaw set defiantly, in case Reiner scorns what he’s offering.

Reiner doesn’t look the slightest bit scornful; if anything, he looks even more baffled. “What is all this?”

“Food.” Galliard rolls his eyes; _obviously_ it’s food.

“I can see that.” Reiner’s voice is patient, not accusatory at all. “But why is it here?”

Galliard shrugs; what had seemed like a good idea before, when he’d been gathering all this in a feverish rush, now seems stupid and paltry, spread out before them on the table. “You’ve lost weight.”

Reiner blinks, and suddenly Galliard is furious; furious at Reiner for not understanding; at himself for thinking this would be meaningful; at Marley for first killing his brother and then stealing away thirty years of his own life. He’s furious at everything, at everything he’s lost and everything he’ll never have, and Reiner is the closest available target.

“You’re not taking care of yourself because you don’t care anymore, do you?” Galliard snatches the loaf of bread off the table and attacks it with his pocketknife, sawing off a chunk before reaching for the jam. “Ever since you came back, you haven’t given a shit. You act like you lost fucking everything on that island!”

Reiner sits silent across from him, his mouth hanging open slightly, and Galliard savagely slathers the piece of bread with jam, red juice and berries bleeding from the knife onto his knuckles. “You think we didn’t lose stuff too? You think you’re the only one who lost something on that island? You’re not!”

Reiner, Pieck, Colt, Galliard himself… they’ve all lost something precious to them on Paradise, and Galliard thrusts the piece of bread in Reiner’s face, miscalculating and hitting his lower lip with it. “We all did too, and we keep going! We keep trying, and keep fighting, and you’re a fucking coward if you don’t too! You don’t get to just starve yourself and die because you’re sad or you’re scared! _We’re_ sad and scared too, goddammit! _And we need you_!”

The last sentence echoes through the room, ringing out between them, bald and bare and far more honest than Galliard would have liked. He wishes he could snatch it away, but it’s already out there in the open, and he can feel embarrassed heat rising in his cheeks.

“We need you.” He mutters it this time, dropping his eyes from Reiner’s stunned face, and starts to lower his hand.

Reiner catches Galliard’s wrist, his hand big enough to wrap most of the way around it, his skin warm and calloused, almost like it’s grown some of the plating his titan carries. “You’re right.”

“Huh?” Galliard looks back up, shocked, and Reiner’s eyes are warmer than he’s ever seen them before, kind and compassionate and caring, and Galliard realizes he _has_ seen Reiner look like this before, through another’s eyes. The two Reiners overlay each other again, before blending into the one sitting before him. Two Reiners, with the same eyes.

“You’re right.” Reiner lets go of Galliard’s wrist, taking the bread from his hand and biting into it. “Sorry.”

“Uh… yeah. Good.” Galliard looks away, his cheeks still hot; of all the possible outcomes, he had never thought Reiner would agree with him. “So you should eat more.”

“I will.” Reiner’s voice is thick, his mouth full of bread, and the room is quiet for a moment until he finishes chewing and swallows. “Your mother made that jam, didn’t she?”

“How did you know about that?”

“Everyone knows about Mrs. Galliard and her raspberry jam.” Galliard glances over, assuming Reiner is making fun of him, but he’s reaching for the bread and the jam pot. “It’s the first time I’ve tried it, though.”

“She’d make you more. If you asked.” If they ever have a chance to ask.

The corner of Reiner’s mouth lifts a little, and Galliard knows he’s thinking the same thing. “I will. After we find the kids and go home.”

“Yeah. When we go home.”

Reiner takes the pocketknife from Galliard’s hand, transferring it to his free hand so he doesn’t have to let go of Galliard. Then he brings Galliard’s hand to his face, and, as Galliard watches in confusion, kisses the spilled jam juice off the back of his knuckles. Reiner’s lips are far softer than he thought they’d be, and the hair of his beard whispers across Galliard’s fingers.

“Thank you for doing this.”

“Yeah. You’re… you’re welcome.” And Galliard stays where he is, watching as Reiner eats the meager feast he’d been able to lay out for him, his hand burning where Reiner had kissed him, suddenly more at peace than he’s been for years.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my gift for the Discord Gallirei Gift Exchange! It's for the very talented [Alina](https://twitter.com/alinajames), whom you should all go follow if you're not doing so already.


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